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"Gus," said Cappy Ricks, "one of these days the Democratic party is going to wake up and discover that America isn't where they left it the night before! And when that happens they're going to ask you about it, you you infer-nal " The phone clicked. J. Augustus Redell had hung up. "Drat it! God bless him!" murmured Cappy Ricks and hung up, too.
And, though he had taken his beating like the rare old sport that he was, nevertheless the leaves of memory had a horrible habit of making a most melancholy rustling; and for two weeks, following his ignominious rout at the hands of J. Augustus Redell, Cappy's days and nights were entirely devoted to scheming ways and means of vengeance.
Germany knows that; England knows it; Austria knows it; and from the jackstaff of the late Bavarian, now renamed the Alden M. Peasley, in honor of my first grandson, there floats " J. Augustus Redell raised his index finger, enjoining silence: "Now then! One, two, three! Down, left, up!
What more natural, therefore, than that little Cappy should presently arrogate to himself the privilege of stabbing young J. Augustus to the vitals from time to time, just to impress upon the boy the knowledge that this is a hard, cold, cruel world with a great many bad men in it! Nothing could possibly have delighted Redell more.
I'd try Pollard & Reilly; Redell, of the West Coast Trading Company; Jack Haviland, the ship chandler; Charley Beyers, the ship's grocer and butcher; A. B. Cahill & Co., the coal dealers; Pete Hansen, of the Bulkhead Hotel down on the Embarcadero he's always got a couple of thousand dollars to put into a clean-cut shipping enterprise.
"Well, I don't guarantee a cure, my boy. But I'll say this much: If you and I can't put this thing over, then it just isn't put-overable. Fire away, Gus!" "Have you ever heard of the steamer Bavarian?" "Of course! She belongs to Adolph Koenitz and flies the German flag. Since the war started she's been interned down in Mission Bay." Redell nodded.
Having planted his journalistic bomb, Mr. Redell glanced at his watch. It was exactly eleven o'clock. "I still have time," he murmured, and departed immediately to the office of Gregg of December wheat, but to cease selling the instant the market hesitated to absorb it or the price broke a point. At the same moment, in another brokerage office, Cappy Ricks was issuing a similar order.
Tell Hankins to draw a check for the rebate in full and bring it in to me. Send in a stenographer." Cappy clawed his whiskers as the stenographer took her seat at his desk. "Ahem! Hum! Harumph-h-h!" he began. "Take letter." "Mr. J. Augustus Redell "President West Coast Trading Co. "Merchants' Exchange Building, City.
However, I still have one small duty to perform, Matthew. I've got to send a wireless." "To whom?" "That scoundrel Redell, of course. Think I'm going to swat him and leave him in ignorance of the fact?" Immediately upon arrival at the Commercial Club, Cappy sent the following message: "J. Augustus Redell, "Aboard S. S. Moana.
And Cappy came close to Redell and inclined his head close to the young fellow's breast; whereupon Redell put his lips close to Cappy's ear and answered hoarsely: "I'm going to Papeete to bid in that sunken German steamer, Valkyrie." Cappy nodded. "Huh!" he said. "Is that all? Well, when you return from Papeete you're going to take another journey right away." "Where?"
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